


And As My Constant Companion

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Psychosis, guilty fitz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s cursed. He’s haunted. These are not things Fitz ever thought he’d say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this really came out of left field

He’s cursed. He’s haunted. These are not things Fitz ever thought he’d say. 

But sometimes you have to look at the evidence and consider what you hadn’t before. (Other times you look away, denial beating heavy against your chest.) He has never believed in hauntings, only gotten the vaguest kick out of ghost stories, but suddenly it’s looking like the better option. The more comfortable one. 

He’d rather Will be a specter than something dredged up from his own mind. This won’t play out like last time. 

“I’m not a ghost,” Will tells him, and Fitz doesn’t look away from his reports. He hasn’t spoken back, but this doesn’t seem to deter Will, who shifts to lean against the desk. “And you’re definitely not being haunted.” 

_Shut up_ , Fitz thinks back, unsure if the ghost can hear him, unsure if he wants him to. 

Will just shrugs, pushes himself up to sit next to Fitz’s papers. “You know it’s actually quieter here.” It’s almost two in the morning, no one in the lab except for the two of- except for Fitz. “You would think it would be the other way around, but there was always the wind. And this hum, like an engine. You remember it.” 

It’s true, Fitz does, because it’s suddenly thrumming in his eardrums, loud enough to drown out the words that he’s trying desperately to focus on. His vision swims for a moment before he snaps the folder shut and leaves the lab, Will trailing behind him. 

\--

The pillow held firm against his head isn’t dense enough to drown out the sound of Will breathing, which is stupid because Will doesn’t even need to breathe. He isn’t talking, just sitting in Fitz’s chair, watching. Thinking about how much he hates Fitz, maybe, if he even has thoughts. 

(Nothing besides what Fitz thinks for him, says a little voice in the back of his head.) 

A long breath and tired sigh is what sets Fitz off, who tosses his pillow to the side of the bed and sits up, glaring. “What do you want, anyway?” he asks, loud enough that Daisy can probably hear him from the next room over. 

For once Will is the one not responding. He shouldn’t be visible in the dim light of the room, but Fitz can see him perfectly well, grizzled and dirty, leg still bashed in. 

“Is it- is this a guilt thing? Are you trying to guilt me?” Fitz’s hand rises in the air with his question, but it’s shaking, so he draws it back down by his side. Not that Will would care, but it makes him self-conscious for the other man to see. “Because I don’t really need help with that, if that’s it.” 

“I don’t know,” Will says, in a voice that would imply he definitely does know. 

“Is this just going to be a thing now? With you just hovering beside me all day?” 

“I don’t hover,” he replies, a little defensively. 

Fitz scoffs, moving to lie back down. “Prove it then.” 

\--

He freezes the first time he sees Jemma, heart thudding as if she’ll look up from the table and somehow see Will standing beside him. She’s still mourning—barely gotten to start—so he can’t tell her. It would be detrimental to her process, if she knew he was still hanging around. 

It almost feels wrong, letting Will see her. He’s not jealous (he’s not jealous) but it seems … wrong, is still the best word he can come up with, gaping at her from the doorway. Watching someone grieve for you hurts. Will may be a ghost but he doesn’t need to see that. 

And Jemma deserves the privacy, if nothing else. 

He tries to back out of the rec room but she spots him, smiling tightly and waving at the empty spot next to her with her beer bottle. 

“Would you sit with me?” 

He’s never been one to say no when she’s looking at him with those doe eyes, so he spreads himself next to her on the couch, wringing his hands. “How many have you had?” 

Her nose scrunches, and she twirls the bottle gently between her fingers. “Four, I think.” 

Will scratches at his neck, looking away. The first time in a day and a half that Fitz can’t smell the rot wafting through the air, and it’s because there’s beer (and something harder) on Jemma’s breath at three in the afternoon. 

“Have you slept?” He gently removes the bottle from her hand and sets it on the table, taking hers between his own instead. He rubs a thumb over the rough calluses on her palm, eyes focusing on the motion rather than her face. Will doesn’t leave, but he turns toward the door, hands coming up to rest on his hips. 

The hum starts low in her throat, traveling higher as her lips purse. “Technically-“ 

“Jemma.” 

“No.” She shrugs. “Not for a little while.” 

“How long?” 

“Two days.” 

This gets Will’s attention, and the both of them turn pleading stares to Jemma. She looks away from Fitz with a light blush. “I just-“ she sighs, tilting her head against the back of the couch. Unbeknownst to her, she’s staring right at Will, eyes watering. 

It’s not fair, thinks Fitz, that she can’t even see the person she’s aching for. 

“I’ve tried,” she finishes lamely, grabbing back for her bottle. Fitz lets her take it, watches as she draws a long gulp. “I’ve tried sleeping, but it doesn’t work. I just see … I see things, instead. Memories, I guess, not really dreams.” 

“Of?” It’s Will who speaks, and Fitz falters in the silence. He clears his throat and repeats the question aloud. 

“All of it.” She waves the bottle as if it’s displayed in front of them, if Fitz would only look. “Hydra. Maveth.” Her jaw clenches, and she gives Fitz a cautious glance. “Will.” 

He can’t pretend that his heart doesn’t clench tightly in his chest, even if he knew it was coming. But he can’t show her that, so he just nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are they all bad?” 

“No,” she admits, voice breaking. “But that just makes it worse.” 

“Come here,” he says, and the glass bottle is almost a casualty as Jemma collapses against him, sobs caught in her throat. He manages to extract it from between them and sit it on the table before wrapping his arms around her, fingers running through her hair. The tears haven’t fallen yet, but her whole body shakes with exhaustion. 

“It’s okay,” he says, even though nothing is, besides the fact that she’s here in his arms, “It’s okay. Just let it out Jemma. It’s-“ His breath catches, and he glances back towards Will, who looks stricken. “It’s just the two of us, you can let it out.” 

She shakes her head, but a sob escapes anyway, and then more, and her fingers scramble in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like she might sink. A tear finally drips out onto his shoulder, and he rocks her lightly, murmuring nonsense as he strokes her hair. 

Eventually the combination of her exhaustion and his soothing is enough to put her to sleep, breath still hiccupping occasionally, and Fitz eases himself back against the arm of the couch, her head on his shoulder. 

Will sits in front of them on the coffee table, shoulders tight. 

“What?” Fitz asks, before he can think about it. 

“She … was different. On the planet.” 

Fitz holds his breath, because new information—verifiable information—would be enough to prove the existence of Will the Ghost as opposed to Will the Hallucination, something that Fitz is still riding on with both heart and brain. Some of it is for selfish reasons, of course, but with Jemma still clung tight to him even in her sleep, he can’t help but hope that Will is real for her sake as well. At the very least, she would be able to say goodbye. 

Will furrows his brows. “I guess everyone is different in Hell.” 

\--

For two days Will hasn’t offered up anything new, has barely spoken, actually, save for the occasional yes or no. For the most part he scoffs and grunts and stands uncomfortably close to Fitz’s shoulder, smelling like decay and sunbaked sand. 

It’s another late night in the lab, and Will is practically breathing down his neck. 

“Ca-Can you please just … give me some-some space!” he shouts, and then pushes the balls of his hands into his eyes. He can’t concentrate, can barely inhale past the odor, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth. 

Will grumbles a “sure” and moves about five feet away, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. 

“Don’t tell me you-you’ve got to go to the loo or something,” Fitz grounds out, disbelieving. Will doesn’t follow him near the bathrooms, for which Fitz is endlessly grateful. 

“No,” he huffs, and Fitz sags down in his seat. “You haven’t talked to her.” 

“Who?” Fitz asks, even though he knows damn well who.

Will rolls his eyes. “Jemma. About this.” 

“What’s to tell?” Fitz mutters, swiveling back around in his seat. His fingers are too twitchy to work on any of his projects, and he’s mainly just procrastinating on sleeping, wanting to listen to anything—even the scratch of pencil on paper—over the even tone of breath that always gets trapped in his ears. He can feel disappointment radiating off Will, like some weird sixth sense. 

“The truth.” 

Fitz laughs, though he doesn’t mean to. The disappointment radiates stronger. “Okay, I just- what am I to say? ‘Hey Jemma remember when I didn’t tell you I hallucinate people sometimes, namely you? Well it might be happening again or it might be your dead boyfriend, surprise!’” He shakes his head. “She’s … she’s still mourning, Will, that’s not right. I can’t do that to her.” 

“You’re afraid.” Will surmises, and Fitz stiffens. “You’re afraid she’ll reject you if you tell her the truth about everything.” 

He pushes a breath out of his nose, dropping a hand to his desk with a loud _thud_. “Wouldn’t you be? I mean can you honestly blame me for that?” 

Will doesn’t speak for a long time, and Fitz goes back to drawing mock ups. None of them are any good, and his hands keep cramping up, but it’s giving him something to do. Something besides focus on the fear that curls tendrils through his ribs.

“Do you still think I’m real?” 

Fitz stops and turns to glare at him, giving him a good once over. “Do you?” 

It’s the first time Will has left in four days. 

\--

It doesn’t last long. Will is in his room when he arrives, and follows him back to the lab in the morning. He doesn’t talk, and Fitz doesn’t prod him to. 

He almost got used to the fresh air, though, in the brief time Will was gone. He misses the smell of chemicals and metal in the lab rather than Will’s telltale stench. He misses not feeling watched all the time. (He misses getting to sit with Jemma without her space boyfriend judging him from the corner.) 

Without his permission, animosity takes root in the base of his spine. 

\--

“Hey mate, join us for a beer?” Hunter calls to him as he walks down the hallway. 

The promise of company is what draws him in, but he stops short in the doorway. Hunter and Mack are sitting on the couch, video game paused in front of them. It’s some new game Fitz hasn’t played yet, that he would have been interested in a few weeks ago. But the basic plot is ‘go to other planets and shoot aliens’, and suddenly Fitz isn’t sure he can stomach it. Even the thought of watching and drinking a beer, sliding thick down his throat, is enough to get his guts rolling. 

He can see Will’s body falling, a crater in his back, smoking as Fitz holds the flare gun with shaking hands.

Will is so close he’s almost pressed against his shoulder, and Fitz’s mouth works around words that aren’t appearing, hands fluttering at his side. 

“You should go,” Will says, in the voice that feels like gravel scraping in his eardrums. 

“I can’t,” he finally manages, looking away. His palm presses against his forehead, the only warm spot he can focus on as he begins to shiver, feeling nauseous, Will cold behind him. 

“We can change the game,” Mack says, but Fitz is already heading down the hallway, almost at a run, hoping to leave Will behind for even a second. 

\--

Fitz has been rifling through the fridge for ten minutes because nothing looks good enough cut through the smell that seems constantly stuck in his nostrils nowadays. He could have tea for breakfast, tea for the third meal in a row, but he’s getting lightheaded and Jemma is bound to notice. 

Will hovers behind him, like always. “When you live off rations and space fungus for 14 years, just about anything starts to look appetizing.” 

“Well excuse me,” Fitz mutters, and slams the door. 

\--

Will at least has the decency to turn away as Fitz dresses, but when he looks back Will is staring at the photo that he and Jemma took in Peru, looking tired and wistful. 

“You should talk to her today,” Will tells him, and Fitz wants to get back in bed and not leave, just to spite him. 

“Why don’t you do it?” he asks instead. 

“She won’t hear me.” He looks at Fitz like he’s stupid, like Fitz was expecting an honest answer. 

“Might want to speak up then, mate.” He thinks better of trying to slap a hand to Will’s shoulder, but leaves the room before the other man has a chance to respond. 

(Will spends the rest of the day talking a little louder than necessary. Fitz hates him.) 

\--

The shower becomes a place of refuge, one of the only places Will won’t follow, besides his sleep. If the others notice his hour long breaks, they don’t say anything. 

He’s not even under the water, just sitting with his back against the wall, trying to breathe. Inhaling the smell of shampoo in shaky gasps, fingers digging into his kneecaps. 

He’d gotten so caught up in his work earlier that, for a second, he almost forgot all about Will. About the pseudo-haunting, the smell, the blood that occasionally seeps from his leg and drips onto the floor in shiny puddles, everything. He was just in the lab, doing what he did best, completely focused, when Will had spoken. He doesn’t even remember what he said, because all he could hear was his own gasp and the crash of tools on the lab floor. 

Jemma was there, saw the whole thing. His sudden flinch and the fallen instruments. The way he darted out of the lab shortly after. The whole team is bound to know by now, and are probably all very concerned, maybe even looking for him. 

He can’t take this anymore. 

\--

It’s four days and a string of well-meaning conversations later when Fitz finally has managed to find all the words he wants to say, gathered like pinpricks in his lungs. The base is dark as he paces the halls, Will trailing him from a short distance, trying to work up the momentum to say what he’s planned. 

Finally he stops near one of the unused kitchens, wandering in on a whim. It feels musty, collecting on his skin, and it jars him enough to open his mouth to the tide that’s rushing up within him. 

“Did I ever-“ He stops, clearing his throat and facing Will properly, who is looking around as if something might pop out from the cabinets at any moment. “I never apologized. For what happened on Maveth.” 

Now Will is looking at him like _he’s_ the thing that’s just popped out of the cabinet. “For what?” 

“All of it, I guess.” He shifts, trying not to back down from this. “You died because of me.” 

“I was dead before you and that Hydra lot showed up-“ 

“I know, I meant- before. The first time I was there.” 

Will shakes his head, moving forward and looking angry, and Fitz is pressed against the counter before he really notices that he’s swayed. He isn’t afraid, not of Will, but the whole thing has him light on his feet. 

“I died protecting Jemma.” 

“I know.” And he really does know, it’s practically seared into his flesh. “I know and I’ll never stop being grateful to you for that, not until the day I go too. But look, you survived fourteen years on that planet and the moment I opened the portal … You died protecting Jemma, but you wouldn’t have had to if it wasn’t for me showing up. Just, let me say sorry for that, cause I haven’t and someone should.” 

“Okay,” Will says, but he doesn’t look happy about it. 

“Okay,” Fitz repeats, rubbing his palms over the fabric of his pants. “And I’m sorry for the second time, too. Cause then I knew who you were, I knew all about you, really, and what you’d been through and I was still … still jealous. You were living in Hell and I was jealous of what you had with Jemma. Which is the stupidest- I just-“ He sighs, shaking his head to clear the jumble of phrases that fog there. “You deserved so much, Will. You deserved every scrap and shred of happiness you could find, and I’m glad you found that. Even if it was with Jemma. And I’m glad she found it too, even if it wasn’t with me. You both deserve whatever happiness the universe will let you have, and I’m sorry I ever thought differently.” 

Will is quiet for a while, thinking, and Fitz’s nerves run electric through every part of his body. “Are you still jealous?” he finally decides on. 

“Yeah,” Fitz admits, on a breath. 

“Okay.” 

After a long pause, Fitz continues. “I’ve bought a sapling.” His voice is a little shaky, and he clears his throat. “It’s, um- It’s yours. I’m gonna plant it just outside the base for you. Have a little ceremony, I guess. It’s just a wee thing right now but it’ll grow big, uh- whether it’s in memorial or a ‘welcome home’ is up to you, I guess.” 

Faltering, Will just stares at him for a moment before he begins to nod. “You’re done trying to figure out if I’m real, then.” 

“I don’t think it really matters.” It comes out like a question, and Fitz flaps his hand, trying to think. “I was actually angry with you, earlier this week. Livid. Whether you’re in my head or whether you’re real … I haven’t been treating you right either way.”

Will considers. “Do you still think this is a guilt thing?”

“Maybe?” Fitz gives a small shrug, hands spread. “It could be. I gave up on trying to figure out why and decided to do something about it. It really doesn’t-“ 

“Who are you talking to?” 

Fitz whirls around, breath stuck in his throat. Jemma stands in the doorway with a worry line between her brows. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I could ask you the same.” She glances around the bare kitchen, taking note of the lack of others. 

“I asked first,” he fumbles, immediately regretting it, hands gripping the counter behind him. 

Jemma scoffs. “Oh don’t be childish.” 

She steps closer to him, hands shoved in the pockets of her—his—hoodie. She’s on edge, and keeps glancing away. When it seems like he isn’t going to answer, just stand there increasingly flustered, she sighs, bending down to fetch something from the lowest drawer. She rattles it before holding it out to him. 

He takes it with a shaky hand, mouth pulling downward. 

“I was worried someone would find it in my room. No one ever comes down here.” 

It’s an orange pill bottle, unlabeled. 

“Jemma, what is this-“ 

“Just sleeping pills,” she hastens to add, seeing the anxiety in his expression. “I was having trouble, and I … well I just cooked some up, I suppose. Nothing too strong, but it helps.” She gives a strained chuckle, holding out a hand to take them back. He gives them over begrudgingly, and she takes one chalky pill out of the bottle, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it up at the sink. 

“Well, now you know my little secret.” She swallows down the pill, grimacing at the taste. “So it’s your turn to fess up.” 

He shuffles, a sigh pulling from his throat. Will is nodding at him, encouraging, but Fitz’s mind is stalling, trying to gain traction. “I don’t know if I can.” 

“Oh.” She looks surprised, but like she’s trying not to show it. “That’s alright. You really don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” 

“I do-“ His hands raise up placidly, and then he drops them again. “I do, just maybe … not yet.” 

“Okay.” She takes another sip of water, watching him, and then pours the rest down the sink. He can see the wheels turning in her head as she cleans the glass and dries it. “Is it something bad?” 

He squints, a hand coming up to rub against the back of his neck. He glances to Will, who’s watching him but not giving anything away. “I don’t think so. No, not really.” 

“And you’re fine? You’ve been acting differently the last week or so.” She puts the glass away, nibbling her bottom lip. 

He feels a little guilty, and tries to push it back with all the other emotions that swim in his chest. “Don’t worry about me Jemma, I’m okay.” 

She turns to look at him, really look, examining his face, and then nods. “If you say so.” 

“I do.” 

Now that her hands are free she wrings them together, thumb sweeping over her fingers. She opens her mouth and then closes it, shaking her head, and turns away from him. 

“Can I walk you back to your room?” he offers, and she smiles, small and shy. 

“I’d like that.” 

He holds out a hand and she laces her fingers with his own, leaning against him as they walk down the long hallways. Will walks behind them, and Fitz can see his smile even though he’s not looking. 

She talks about her most recent discovery in the lab as they walk, occasionally interspersed with wide yawns. Fitz is listening but doesn’t really hear most of it, is relishing just being next to her, palms pressed together. When they get back to her room he leans over to press a kiss into Jemma’s hairline, slowly unlacing their fingers. 

“Goodnight, Jemma.” 

His turn to leave is interrupted as she catches his sleeve, tugging him back. “Would you …” Her voice has taken on a sleepy slur, but her eyes are alert, almost anxious. She glances behind him, pressing her lips together. “Would you stay? At least- at least until I fall asleep?” 

She looks like she’s going to explain herself, so he quickly nods. “Yeah, of course.” 

She opens the door with a grateful sigh, toeing off her slippers and climbing under the covers. Fitz sits on the edge of the bed to take his shoes off, and then climbs in after her, letting her rest her head against his chest, slipping out her ponytail so he can card his fingers through her hair. She makes a contented noise and pushes closer, one leg moving to encircle his own. 

It isn’t until he’s on the edge of sleep himself that he notices Will is nowhere to be seen. Jemma’s body pressed against his own is the only other in the room, her quiet snores the only thing he can hear. 

She’s here, next to him, alive and breathing, because of Will, so he mouths a silent _thank you_ to him, wherever he is, and pushes his nose into Jemma’s hair. She smells like Jemma, like she always has, lilacs and chemicals, and it’s the last thing Fitz is aware of as he slowly falls asleep. 

He dreams of Will with them on the base, back home on Earth. Will is happy in his dream. It’s the first and only time he hears him laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

Fitz picks at dead leaves and lets them crumble between his fingers, brushing the remains into a little ring around the base of the tree, brown and orange flakes. The tree is still small, but its trunk has grown thicker since it had been planted. One day it'll be mighty, big enough to rival the trees in the surrounding forest, big enough to climb on and feel big yourself. 

A cold breeze crawls up his jacket and he pulls it tighter around himself, shoving his hands in the pockets. He gazes at the oak, studying its pathway of branches, the veins and knobs that are starting to appear on the smooth trunk. A progression of ants circle around it, marching one by one, completely uniform. 

He came out here for some clarity but he's starting to feel numb to the swirl of thoughts in his head, like there are too many to try and focus on any particular one so he's just tuning them all out, letting them mass and then pass by without care. He's not helping himself in the long run, he knows, but he can't find it within him to do something about it, so he sits, and watches the ants, and lets the thoughts push down on his shoulders in a heavy shroud. 

"There you are!" 

He startles and turns. Jemma stops a little ways away. 

"I've been looking for you for ages. Daisy finally spotted you on the security camera, but not before I searched the whole base. You're going to miss dinner." 

"Not hungry." 

She presses both of her hands into the side of her neck, shifting and glancing away. His brow scrunches in sympathy. 

"I'm sorry I worried you. I didn't mean to stay out this long." Now that he's having to squint at her he realizes how dark it's gotten without his noticing, the sun almost completely below the horizon. 

"You just didn't tell anyone, is all." 

She doesn't look like she's planning on heading back inside, so he pats the ground next to him. "Do you want to sit with me?" 

"I don't want to interrupt." 

"What, me and the tree?" 

She shrugs defensively and then folds herself next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Figure you have something on your mind if you're out here. Especially in this weather, Fitz, you hate the cold." 

"I do," he agrees, to both statements. 

She nods and pushes closer to him, shivering even in her heavy coat. "Anything you'd care to share?" 

He's silent, and Jemma tilts up to prop her chin on his shoulder, examining the side of his face. He isn't sure what she finds there, but it makes her frown. "You don't have to if you don't want." 

"It's been a year." 

She follows his gaze to the tree. "Since we planted it?"

"Since I got it." 

She leans her head back down so they can look at it together, almost glowing in the last of the evening's light. "It's grown a lot." 

"So have we. We're different." 

"Mostly in good ways, I hope." 

"Yeah." He smiles, despite the heaviness in his chest, presses a kiss to her hair. "Yeah, in good ways." 

"Is that what you've been thinking about?" 

He shrugs, then shakes his head. "Thinking about Will."

"I wish you could've met him," she sighs. It's not a new sentiment, but one that rolls his stomach with something all the same. Guilt, maybe, shame. He's been meaning to tell her, he really has, about what had happened when he got back from the planet, and now seems as good a time as any. Will would've told him to go for it, often did, but something still holds him back. He bites his tongue, mouth empty around words that aren't there. 

"You never told me why you got it," Jemma says, quiet enough that it's almost a whisper. She clears her throat and raises her voice, fingers squeezing around his arm. "Not that I'm not grateful, you know I am. I've just always wondered why. You didn't tell me, the first time I asked." She looks up at him expectantly, and he doesn't look back. 

"I just thought he'd like it." Which is the same thing he told her before, something they both know is less than half a truth. 

She doesn't reply, and it aches him that he can't just spit it out. He isn't as afraid as he used to be, and there are nights when he doesn't worry over it at all, how she'll react. When he just knows, with some deep, clawing instinct, that it won’t change things. But tonight is one of the nights where he seems to worry about everything, and it won't let any words past his throat but safe ones. Lets him think about it incessantly, but nothing more. 

The wind rocks the thin branches of the tree, and he shivers. 

"We should head inside before all the food is gone," Jemma says, but she seems unwilling to move, despite the cold and the dark. 

Fitz is about to agree, knowing that he should eat more than feeling anything resembling hunger, when a broad, cold hand settles on his shoulder, squeezes once, and then dissipates, soft enough to be the wind. Fitz jerks, and Jemma pulls away from him, worried. 

"Fitz, what's wrong?" 

"You asked me who I was talking to," Fitz blurts out, heart and head pounding, because the old, familiar contact had rattled something loose deep behind his ribs, had made it easier and harder to breathe all at once. He knows he needs to do this now, here in front of the little memorial tree, or he might never find the strength to. His head is muddled, pulling up memories faster than he can sort them. "A year ago, in the kitchen," he clarifies, because her worried look hasn’t gone away, obviously not remembering the day as sharply as he is, "you walked in on me and asked who I was talking to, and I didn't answer you." 

"Yes," Jemma says, hesitant on his behalf rather than her own. "You'd acted strange all week. And you told me about buying the tree the next morning." 

"I was talking to Will," he says, before he can lose momentum. 

Jemma nods, lips pursed, and then stops. "I'm not sure I follow." 

"I was- I-" His throat chokes, and he tries to clear it, turns in the dirt so he's facing her. He pulls his hands onto his lap, then reaches out for hers instead, studying her fingers as he bends and straightens them, finding a calm consistency in the roll of her knuckles, in the calluses on her palm. His fingers tingle with energy, but they're soothed where they make contact with hers. "I was talking to him because I used to see him. After Maveth. He would- um- follow me around. Talk to me." 

She pauses. "Like a ghost?" 

The odd note in her tone, completely incredulous but striving not to be, makes him smile. "No. Well, yes, like that, I guess. But not." 

She dips her head, but he still isn't looking at her. Just keeps moving her fingers, one by one. "What are you trying to say, Fitz?" 

"I used to really wish he was one," he continues, like he hasn't heard her. "for a lot of reasons. Some of them selfish. But then he would've—if he were real—he would've gotten a proper end, you know? Back on earth. Where he should've been. And not ..." He tilts his head. "And then, if he was, you would've gotten to say goodbye." 

He finally glances up, and she looks a little watery eyed, but it might've been because of the cold. 

"If he wasn't a ghost, then ..." She's quiet for a moment, staring at their hands. "Then, what? You imagined him?" 

"Yeah, more or less." 

"Why?" 

He shrugs. "Not sure. Guilt, I guess." 

She chews on her bottom lip, not looking at him, but not pulling away, for which Fitz is grateful. There's a torrent inside him and he feels like it's being let out through a pipette. Horrible pressure that's easing just enough to be noticeable. 

"You could've told me." 

"I couldn't. I was scared." He smiles again, but this time it's rueful. "Still am. And you were in mourning, Jemma, you didn't need that." 

"Scared of ..." Her jaw clenches. "Of me?" 

"No," he rushes to say. And he wants to tell her that _this_ , this is what he's been scared of, her getting hurt. And of other things, too, that he'll keep to himself. "No, no, of course not Jemma." 

"What other reason would there have been? For you to keep it hidden, all this time." There are definitely tears in her eyes now, but before Fitz can scramble for a response she continues. "I could've helped you, Fitz. We could've figured something out. Or at the very least I could've been there for you." 

"You already were, Jemma," he stresses, squeezing her fingers. "You've always been there for me-" 

"Not always," she says, face darkening as she moves to slip her fingers away from his own. 

He moves closer and cups his hands around her wrists—not trapping her, just a light touch, but enough to stop her retreat. "Yes, always. Even ... Even while you were at Hydra." He's already said this much, he might as well come clean about it all. He's tired of keeping secrets from her. "See, Will wasn't the first time that I- uh-"

"Hallucinated someone?" she offers quietly. 

"Yeah." 

"When I left, you ..."

"You've always been there for me, Jemma. Always. Even if you didn't know it at the time." 

"I certainly didn't think ..." A tear drips down her cheek and she lets it fall uninterrupted. They're far past the point of trying to hide things like that from each other. "I only ever mean to do right by you, Fitz." 

"I know that now. And I should've known it all along. That I didn't in the beginning was my fault, not yours."

"Then why does it still feel like you don't trust me? Why do you still hide things like this from me? If I hadn't come out here tonight would you have told me at all?" 

"Yes, of course-"

"But you waited a whole year. A whole year, Fitz, where I could've been helping you."

"I don't need help," he says, then quickly realizes it was the wrong thing to say. They've always helped each other whether it's strictly necessary or not. They do things together, because they're better as a unit. That's how it's always been. He can see a similar line of thinking play across her face, but she doesn't need to ask to know that he regrets his words. 

"Does anyone else know?" Jemma asks, after a silence. 

"Daisy knows about- well about you. I think she had her suspicions about Will, but I never told her." 

She nods, and then keeps nodding, like she's forgotten to stop, gaze wandering somewhere past his shoulder, out into the dark. He waits for her to say something, but she doesn’t, tears still glistening under the line of her eyes. 

"Are we ... okay?" he asks, and then winces at how meekly the question had escaped him. He wants to show her that he's fine, that he's strong and that she doesn't need to worry about him, and sounding like a scared child probably isn't helpful to that. And he doesn't want to feel that way, either, young and scared. 

"What reason would we have to not be okay?" She sounds like she's half expecting an answer, like she's willing to start off a checklist herself, but after a few moments of silence her eyes snap back to his, tense and blazing, and then she droops. "It always feels like we're just around the corner, doesn't it? Like if we can just get through the next thing, _then_ we'll be ..." she trails off, lips twisting and hands curling into his. "I'm sick of 'okay' being something that only exists in an optimistic future. I want that for us now. More than I've ever wanted anything, I want us to be okay, Fitz. I just don't know how." 

"Let's go away somewhere," he says, pressing closer to her, thumbs stroking the insides of her wrists. "Just the two of us, just for a little while. And we’ll get this all sorted out." 

"We have too much work to do." 

He doesn't argue because he knows it's true. Still, it was a nice fantasy to have, for the few seconds it lasted. The thought of work seems to take the last of the energy she had, and Jemma tips forward to rest her head against his collarbone. He extracts one hand and uses it to smooth down her hair. "I don't know how to make us okay, either." 

"I think we can start by not hiding things from each other," she says, voice muffled in his jacket. "We're a team, aren't we?" 

"Yeah. The best."

"Then can I ask a question?" 

"Anything."

"What ... What did he say? Will. When you saw him." 

Fitz leans his cheek against her hair, grips her wrist a little tighter. There had been a lot of not speaking between him and Will, and a lot of snide and unnecessary comments. After their talk things had gotten easier, but that rocky footing never went away. Fitz had lapsed back into anger on several occasions, and never quite felt like he could make up for it. There was one constant through it all, though. "He worried over you, mostly. Would tell me to talk to you more, to be honest with you about what was happening." 

She chuckles, but it sounds strained. "Your own subconscious and you still wouldn't listen." 

"To be fair, I thought he was a ghost at the time." 

"So you went against the wishes of a dead man? That doesn't make it better, Fitz." Though it surprises him, he’s pleased to hear a smile in her voice, despite the subject. 

"What can I say, I'm a coward." 

She pulls away from him, smile dropping, giving him a look he can't quite read. "You're the bravest man I know." 

He shakes his head, despite the flush that spreads through his chest. "You know a lot of men braver than me, Jemma." 

"Well I don't think so. And in any case you're my favorite. Even when you’re hiding ghosts from me." 

"You're my favorite, too." He smiles, the flush migrating up to his cheeks. "And I- I'm sorry, that I didn't tell you about this sooner. I should've. I never should've thought you'd be anything but supportive." 

"No, I get it, it's scary," she says, and relief floods him. "And I can't imagine you were in a great mindset while it was happening, nor can I say I was in one either.” She clears her throat. “What eventually made it stop?" 

"You. Spending time with you, talking to you. He'd kind of hang back whenever you were around, and after a while he stopped showing up. I guess that's all he wanted, really. All I wanted." 

She swallows thickly, nods. "Well you have me, Fitz, in whatever way you need." 

After a moment he leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, letting his lips linger, because there's really nothing he can say to express his gratitude. She leans into it, so he hopes she understands. A little shiver runs through her, and he pulls back, just noticing the chill at the edges of his senses. 

"I think we've missed dinner." 

"We'll make pancakes," she says, trying for a grin and missing by a mile, but he appreciates the effort. 

He starts to unfold himself and pull them both up. "With chocolate chips?" 

"Yes, with chocolate chips." 

They walk back to the entrance of the base in the now-full dark, the stars twinkling above them. Jemma stops him as they near the door, looking up at him seriously. 

"As long as there's any hope of things turning out okay for us, I'll fight for that. As long as we have each other I'll keep fighting." 

"To the ends of the universe and back," he confirms. 

Jemma slips her fingers through his, and as they walk through the door Fitz turns to look at the memorial tree, standing young and strong and proud in the darkness. He can almost imagine Will standing next to it, waving him on. They both make him feel a little braver.


End file.
